


Weekend at Mummy's

by wheel_pen



Series: Indigo [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4878889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been summoned to the family estate for the weekend, loathing the planned events such as cocktail parties and formal dinners. Indigo is more worried about meeting Mummy for the first time, and being scrutinized by Mycroft.</p><p>I could probably write more here at some point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

It was difficult playing Twenty Questions with Sherlock.

One might think it would be satisfying—of course one would always lose, but surely he would ask unique and perceptive questions. Well, Indigo supposed they _were_ unique, and might have been perceptive had he been able to answer them. But honestly, how was he supposed to know the length of Joseph Stalin’s left thumb, especially when he was driving and couldn’t even hope in Google? Naturally Sherlock was frustrated by his limitations.

“Could you just ask normal questions, please?” Indigo requested. “Alive or dead, male or female, that sort of thing.”

Sherlock huffed, predictably. “It’s not much of a game if it’s _dull_ ,” he pointed out. “I could ask the same six questions for anyone you can think of and get the right answer, but that’s hardly interesting.”

“It would be interesting to _me_ ,” Indigo insisted. “The same six questions for _anybody_? I bet you couldn’t.” Actually, he would never bet against Sherlock’s deductive abilities, but sometimes a little skepticism spurred him on.

“The same six questions,” Sherlock repeated. “Moreover, I could get the answer without you saying anything at all.”

“Oh, you’re just going to read my expressions, hmm?” Indigo surmised. “Well, I’ve been working on my poker face, so good luck.”

“You can’t even convincingly fake disbelief in my abilities, let alone prevent me from understanding your non-verbal cues,” Sherlock judged, boredom dripping from his tone.

Indigo laughed. “You’re complaining because I believe you?”

“I’m complaining because you offer so little _challenge_ ,” Sherlock shot back.

There was silence in the car. “Oh,” Indigo finally said, staring straight ahead. Of course he knew he was nowhere near Sherlock’s intellectual equal, but sometimes the other man said he was interesting or at least useful. A slave shouldn’t ask for compliments from his master, Indigo supposed. He should just be grateful he didn’t get kicked; the occasional insult, delivered in an acidic tone the way only Sherlock could and at just the right time to really sting, was hardly worth getting upset about, compared to all that he’d been through.

He could not hope Sherlock would be _completely_ obtuse, though. For some reason the man liked to _try_ with him. “Indigo—“ he said after a moment, something conciliatory in his tone.

“Sorry, I ought to concentrate on the driving, if you don’t mind,” Indigo told him neutrally. “I think it’s starting to rain.”

“No, it’s not,” Sherlock contradicted. “You’re not going to zone out, are you?”

“No, not while I’m driving.”

“See that you don’t.” A pause. Sherlock could only entertain himself for so long. “Oh, stop pouting,” he ordered. “I apologize for calling you unchallenging. It’s true, though. This game is not your strong suit.”

“Has anyone ever mentioned to you,” Indigo asked carefully, keeping an eye on his body language, “that apologies are not _your_ strong suit?”

Sherlock laughed suddenly, which made Indigo relax a little more. “Many times, actually,” he admitted. “Which is why I don’t usually bother with them. You seem to appreciate them, though.”

“I do,” Indigo confirmed. “Perhaps with fewer insults attached, though. If you were looking for tips.”

Sherlock appeared thoughtful. “Hmm, that might explain a few things,” he decided.

“Like why Mrs. Hudson refused to speak to you even after you allegedly apologized for insulting her banana biscuits?” Indigo guessed.

“They were rubbish!” Sherlock protested. “ _You_ thought they were rubbish, didn’t you?”

“A rare misstep,” Indigo agreed. “But not the point.”

“And I apologized!”

“While still referring to them as rubbish.”

“Oh, so I must not only apologize, but also _lie_?” Sherlock concluded, clearly disliking this plan.

“No, you simply don’t mention the negative part again,” Indigo explained. Sometimes he wondered how Sherlock had survived childhood with such poor social skills. He suspected it hadn’t been pleasant.

Sherlock sighed, loudly, as if this was all a huge burden on him. “I apologize for calling you unchallenging,” he repeated, “which I observe from your body language upset you.”

Indigo waited to see if he could resist continuing. He did. “Thank you,” he told Sherlock, giving him a smile that he hoped was sufficient reward.

Sherlock stared at it, then the corner of his mouth quirked up in the beginning of an answering expression. Indigo wished he could enjoy it more but he had to keep his eyes more or less on the road.

“Next time let’s hire a driver,” Sherlock said, squirming around in his seat. “A driver and a big car so I can stretch out.”

“Suits me.”

“I wish to complain more about this weekend I’ve been coerced into,” Sherlock announced after a moment. “May I do so?”

Indigo grinned. “Alright.”

It was all Mycroft’s fault, naturally; some variation on how his to-do list included harassing his little brother, and he didn’t like to repeat himself with _how_ , so this time it was coming to their mother’s house for the weekend. Which, _maybe_ , Sherlock would’ve done on his own, if Mummy had asked him directly; but Mycroft was the intermediary, and it wasn’t just a weekend in the country (ghastly enough from Sherlock’s point of view—nature, open spaces, not enough people, no taxis) but a _dinner party_ to kick things off. A _dinner party_!

Sherlock did not bother to explain why dinner parties were so loathsome to him; it went without saying, and Indigo could well imagine. Sherlock, trapped next to dull people. Sherlock, expected to sit in one place and _eat_. Sherlock, surrounded by people who undoubtedly had secrets written in the lengths of their left thumbs, which he was not allowed to blurt out. It did almost bend one towards conspiracy theories—if Mycroft was specifically hoping to alienate one or more of the guests for some byzantine political reason.

Of course, Sherlock could have refused to go. Right? He’d clammed up when Indigo first suggested that—not in the guilty way of people who would rather complain than take charge of their own lives, but in a _furtive_ way, as if this was an avenue no one must think of going down. That and a few other stray comments—because Indigo _did_ pay attention to his master, mostly, foolish not to—led Indigo to believe that in short, Mycroft was blackmailing Sherlock to attend.

Which led to a whole new realm of speculation for Indigo, in those quiet times when he was making dinner or doing laundry and Sherlock was deeply engrossed in some experiment or his mind palace, rather than pestering him. Indigo still did not have Sherlock’s gift for deduction, though, and perhaps Sherlock was an atypical subject—most people, you could probably say they were doing something either criminal or morally wrong: cheating on a spouse, embezzling from their employer.

Sherlock did not have any ongoing criminal activities that Indigo was aware of—he’d gathered that in the past there was drug use, quite hardcore drug use, but Sherlock was clean now and only allowed himself to get addicted to things like solving murders and playing Sudoku. And Indigo was not sure what objective moral failings Sherlock could have, that _he_ would actually agree were moral failings to the point of being effective blackmail material.

No, Indigo’s best guess at the moment was, it was something that happened in the past, that Sherlock was _embarrassed_ about, and especially didn’t want his mother to know about, but which he legitimately believed Mycroft _would_ tell her if tested—so maybe more along the lines of breaking a family heirloom, and less of having a drug-fueled orgy caught on video.

“Why are you smirking?” Sherlock demanded. “I wish you wouldn’t _smirk_ when I’m telling you serious things, I—“

Indigo reached over to put a hand on his leg. “I’m sorry,” he claimed, still smirking. “Something you said made me picture you having an orgy, and I’m afraid it got a bit vivid.”

This comment shut Sherlock up for approximately three seconds, which Indigo always counted as a victory. “Who was I having an orgy with?” he finally asked.

“Oh, blond coeds or something.”

Sherlock huffed. “How tedious.”

“Yes, I’m sure it would be.”

“Well what thing I said,” Sherlock wanted to know, “made you think of _that_?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Indigo shrugged. “I rather lost track.”

Sherlock chewed on that for a moment, then snorted derisively. “You are attempting to use overtly salacious behavior to distract me from the fact that you weren’t listening to me,” he accused.

“How’s it working?” Indigo inquired innocently.

“Well, I suppose it worked _this_ time,” Sherlock allowed, “but the shock value will quickly dissipate with overuse.”

“I’ll be sure to use it sparingly, then,” Indigo promised dryly.

“Anyway, I hope you’re paying attention to the _road_ at least,” Sherlock insisted, “because there’s a little track you have to turn on somewhere around here—“ He began looking around in confusion.

“We turned on it about a quarter mile back,” Indigo assured him. He knew better than to rely on Sherlock as his sole source of directions.

“Oh. Alright, then.”

There was one rather important topic Indigo hadn’t broached with Sherlock yet, because he wasn’t sure how well it would go, or if being trapped in a car with Sherlock was better than him being able to walk away. “Um, I wanted to ask you,” Indigo began, feeling Sherlock’s laser beam gaze on him, “how I ought to behave this weekend. I mean, if your mother has any special rules about slaves, or if I ought to do, or not do, anything…” He trailed off lamely.

“Well, if you have any more visions of me in an orgy, don’t mention it in front of Mummy,” Sherlock deadpanned.

Indigo laughed, realized he might be serious, and cleared his throat. “Right, of course. Er, did you have slaves growing up?”

“Yes.” Indigo was slightly surprised at this, given Sherlock’s lack of knowledge about master-slave relations. “I guess,” he added with more uncertainty. “Well, of course. They were always in the background, cooking, cleaning, tending the lawn.”

“Oh, not as companions?” Indigo surmised. People had different philosophies about how slaves should be used.

“No,” Sherlock agreed.

Indigo nodded, starting to get the gist of it now. “I’ll stay out of the way, then.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “No!” he insisted. “You can’t leave me alone with these people!”

“Well, I certainly can’t come to the dinner party,” Indigo pointed out sensibly. He decided he found Sherlock’s dependence mildly flattering, though. “And the rest of the weekend it’s just your mother and brother, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed in defeat, as if this was no less horrible. “I want you by my side by default,” he ordered, “unless I say otherwise specifically.”

His tone, so imperious and condescending, was _not_ very flattering to Indigo. “Of course.” Indigo foresaw a lot of awkward sitting around doing nothing, while people unused to slaves as companions spoke stiltedly over him. And he didn’t really feel comfortable zoning out in front of Mycroft, after what had happened in his office.

Sherlock groaned in childish frustration. “G-d, this is going to be so intolerable!” he muttered again as they drew closer.

Indigo again wasn’t listening to him, but there was another reason this time. The lane, the trees, the signs—they were all starting to look eerily familiar, somehow. Not familiar like he’d seen them on Google Street View when looking up the directions, but familiar like… A feeling of dread formed in his stomach.

“There’s the gate,” Sherlock pointed out unnecessarily.

“Sherlock,” Indigo said. It was the only word he could think of; nothing else would coalesce in his brain.

“G-d, it’s a gigantic pretentious monstrosity,” Sherlock complained of the house, as Indigo turned automatically through the gate to the circle drive.

“Sherlock,” Indigo repeated thickly, and finally the other man turned to him with a frown, just as Indigo really couldn’t make himself go any closer to the house and swerved the car partway onto the grass, braking with a shudder. Sherlock definitely noticed _this_ and turned to him with alarm.

“Indigo? Indigo!” He turned the slave’s face roughly towards him.

“Ow! Stop, alright,” Indigo protested, though the action had indeed torn his gaze from the mansion, and he refused to look back.

“Did you just zone out?” Sherlock demanded. He was halfway kneeling on the seat, the better to loom over Indigo. “We were just talking—“

“No. No, I’m sorry.” First step, calm Sherlock. He took his master’s gesticulating hands in his and rubbed them, concentrating on the long, elegant fingers and fair skin.

“Indigo.” Automatically he looked up and was captured by Sherlock’s intense blue eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He sounded very serious, and Indigo felt suddenly foolish—foolish, but still with the underlying anxiety that wouldn’t go away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“Cease apologizing and explain.”

“I’ve been here before,” Indigo blurted.

There was silence in response as Sherlock stared at him pensively, mind whirring. “With whom?” he asked crisply.

Indigo shut his eyes, not sure if he was trying to remember or forget. “It was a while—maybe five years—“ Or three or seven, he had little sense of time when it came to his slave years.

Sherlock dropped one of his hands to fish in his pocket for his mobile, but the other one clutched Indigo’s hand tightly, which gave the slave a certain amount of comfort. “It’s just—a flashback—“ he claimed, trying to be dismissive. Sometimes that worked. “Happens sometimes, surprised me, it’s fine, only a visit—“ Wasn’t as if he’d lived there or anything.

“Malkeith, Verbaum, Hansen, Simmerson—“ Indigo suddenly understood Sherlock was reading a list of his former owners from his mobile, and somehow that wasn’t helping to settle his stomach.

“Robinsdale,” he finally extracted from his memory, if that would speed the mini-investigation along. “Oh G-d, I must’ve met your mother,” he realized suddenly, letting out a slightly hysterical giggle. Well, it was a small social circle that could afford him, oddly enough.

“I doubt you really _met_ her,” Sherlock contradicted, Googling furiously with one hand. “You were probably sent to the kitchen or the guest suite right away.” His head snapped up. “You didn’t have sex with Mummy, did you?” he asked, momentarily looking as sick as Indigo had felt.

He rushed to reassure him. “No, no, certainly not.” Some people liked to swap their slaves around like that—which he _had_ participated in—but not here. “I think it was only a long weekend, just once actually, just caught me by surprise—“

“D—n, I can’t find anything that would explain it,” Sherlock admitted, turning away from his mobile. “Normally he lives in Somerset, yes? Well, I’ll ask Mummy when I see her.” Indigo really just wanted to forget about the whole thing at this point, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t stop once he’d gotten his teeth into a mystery, no matter how minor. Indigo tried to take it as a compliment, a sign of Sherlock’s interest in him, and he squeezed his hand.

Sherlock refocused on him. “Do you want to go home?” he asked.

Indigo smiled wanly. “We’re in the driveway. I don’t think we can turn around now.”

Sherlock glanced back at the house as if he was seriously contemplating it. Indigo was under no illusion that this was _completely_ about him, he knew Sherlock would love to get out of this weekend himself. “Well, they’ve seen us,” he sighed, though Indigo didn’t notice any change in the building. “Can you drive up to the door?”

“Oh, right, of course.” They dropped hands and Sherlock sat back down in his seat, while Indigo cleared his throat and put the car back in gear. “Might have made a dent in the lawn,” Indigo admitted self-consciously.

“Don’t care.” Of course _Sherlock_ didn’t care, it wasn’t _his_ lawn.

They pulled up in front of the main entrance, all limestone steps and carved figurines and burnished wooden doors studded with bolts. Indigo shook himself as he got out, telling himself to get back in the present with his _current_ master, who was far and away better than any he’d had before. This was his family home and for some reason, Indigo felt slightly desperate to make a good impression on Mummy Holmes and Mycroft. Foolish, really. Sherlock would say he didn’t care about such a thing and he probably wouldn’t get much chance anyway.

Indigo got the bags from the car and handed the keys to a likely-looking lad hovering nearby. Sherlock was chatting with an older fellow in an old-fashioned butler’s uniform—presumably the butler—who interestingly was _not_ a slave. “This is Vickers,” Sherlock introduced briskly. “So, my old room, then?” Sherlock was being pushy about something, Indigo could tell from his body language; and Vickers was too much of an old pro to let his own feelings show.

“Yes, sir,” he agreed blandly. “I’ll see that it’s made ready, sir.”

With no doubt that his will would be carried out, Sherlock strode up the front stairs and through the doors, a prince entering his castle. Indigo sighed and shuffled after him, then tussled briefly with Vickers, who apparently wanted to take the bags from him. “Oh, right, sorry, thanks,” Indigo babbled, hoping he’d hit all the right tones. He was not worthy of Vickers giving verbal instruction to, evidently. Then he hurried after Sherlock, the grey day outside plunging into darkness inside—despite the soaring beam-crossed ceiling high above him, the foyer was dim, like a medieval fortress. Yes, he’d been here before, and places like it. They ceased to impress him any longer.

Sherlock was waiting for him impatiently. His coat had already been carried away and he looked sharp and well-dressed despite being crammed into the car for two hours. Indigo felt as rumpled as he looked, completely out of place and uncomfortable. He decided he was usually zoned out around now, on past visits to houses like this.

“There you are,” Sherlock snipped, grabbing his hand. “Come on, there’s some kind of ghastly cocktail party going on.” They could hear the indistinct murmur of voices from here and Sherlock dragged them closer, his expression one of determination to get it over with.

Indigo deliberately slowed them, even though he knew Sherlock hated that. “Maybe I ought not be there,” he suggested hesitantly when Sherlock turned back to glare at him. “A cocktail party? I should probably go to the room and make sure—“

“No,” Sherlock denied coldly. “I told you, you’re going to stay by my side unless I say otherwise. Now come on!”

This was just one of those times when a slave had to shut up and put up, Indigo reminded himself, and be both subservient to their master and oblivious to their master’s social gaffes. Everyone would stare at him when he entered that room, because Sherlock had brought a slave when it seemed like that wasn’t done here, and moreover Indigo was no nattily-attired hot young thing whose presence might be enjoyed as decorative. He would’ve thought he’d be used to such embarrassments by now.

The room was around the corner, from the way the voices were growing louder. There was a burst of laughter and Indigo froze, instantly cast back several years to when he’d had to listen to variations on that laugh every day. But that couldn’t be right, because that would mean—

“Indigo.” Sherlock was crowding his view, suddenly. “What?”

“He’s here,” Indigo choked out, spinning away as he immediately felt sick. The hallway was too warm and he shrugged his jacket off; the marble pillar he found to lean against was distractingly cool and smooth.

“Robinsdale?” Indigo nodded vaguely, or meant to. He’d met former masters before; sometimes his new master was a friend of the old. But it hadn’t really mattered because he was always in basically the same situation, just with a new name and a new person to answer to. He realized he felt _different_ now, better. Which made the memories all the more painful.

And he was irritating his current master with his dramatics, no doubt. Well done.

“Sherlock—“

“Come on.” Sherlock was hustling him somewhere, away from the voices, arms tightly around him, and Indigo leaned into his shoulder, breathing in his scent and trying to stay calm. They turned into a small room and Sherlock flipped on the light, then shut and locked the door behind them. It was evidently a powder room, though enormous—Indigo had shared bedrooms smaller than this. What it really needed was a couch, though; failing that, he had to curl up on the cool tile floor.

Sherlock gave him a moment, then sat down on the floor leaning against the sink cabinet and pulled Indigo over so his head was on Sherlock’s lap. His long fingers slipped idly through Indigo’s hair, dancing down to the back of his neck while Indigo concentrated on breathing.

“I assume he was a bad master,” Sherlock finally said, in measured tones. Indigo nodded. “You don’t have to be afraid of him anymore,” Sherlock pointed out. “He’s no longer your master, he has no power over you.”

“Yes,” Indigo risked saying.

“And I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then what is the problem, you foolish creature?” This was said with as much affection as Sherlock could muster.

“I _am_ foolish, I’m sorry,” Indigo confessed immediately. Sherlock made a noise of disapproval; Indigo needed to remember it wasn’t the apology he was looking for, but rather the explanation. “I just— _remembered_ being owned by him, I guess.”

Sherlock snorted softly. “Well I don’t think much of your memory, Indigo,” he judged. “Something from years ago knocks you off your feet, but you forgot my polyvinylpolypyrrolidone at the store last week?” He tsked lightly.

This topic was safe enough to calm Indigo, and even gave him a surge of irritation. “I didn’t forget,” he countered. “I brought you polyvinylpyrrolidone.”

“Which is not the same as polyvinylpolypyrrolidone, which is _insoluble_ in my buffer,” Sherlock lectured comfortably. “A medical man should be used to minor differences in formulation like that.”

He did have a point. It was not a serious point, merely an artful digression, and Indigo even smiled a little, recalling how excited Sherlock had been to explain to him the difference between those molecules. He’d gotten out his ball and stick models and everything.

Though he was enjoying the gentle attention from Sherlock, Indigo didn’t want to take it too far and he slowly pushed himself up, kneeling to face Sherlock. “I’m sorry I behaved badly,” he said. “I know I belong to you now and I’ll try not to think about him anymore.”

Sherlock nodded. “Is that what you’re supposed to say?” he asked curiously.

“Yes, generally.”

It didn’t seem to impress Sherlock, but then, few things did. He got to his knees, as if he was going to stand, then stopped and gazed at Indigo thoughtfully. “You _are_ going to keep thinking about this, aren’t you?” he accused, as if he knew Indigo just couldn’t help himself.

“I’ll really try,” Indigo promised hastily. That was as far as he could go. He was already reviewing his former master’s mannerisms and body language, so he could keep himself out of trouble and avoid getting in further should it arise—

Sherlock spotted this, of course. “Clearly you need something to redirect your attention,” he judged. And he slid his hand behind Indigo’s head, leaned down, and kissed him.

It started slowly, just Sherlock’s lips pressed against his, because Indigo was too shocked to respond—one just didn’t kiss slaves on the mouth, you could do anything else you wanted and they _had_ , but this was different, this was something reserved only for extra-special slaves—of course he was Sherlock’s _only_ slave, so—Sherlock encouraged his mouth to open and his tongue slipped in, and Indigo suddenly remembered what he was supposed to be doing in response and surged against him, sliding one knee between Sherlock’s to get closer and clinging to the collar of his shirt. He felt Sherlock’s other hand wrap around his waist, urging him up for better leverage, seemingly trying to swallow Indigo whole. One would think they’d never even shagged before from the desperation they exhibited, pants and moans echoing through the small room.

When Sherlock’s hand dropped to his belt buckle Indigo finally pulled away, breathless and slightly dizzy, his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “We have to…” he tried to explain, in a regretful tone.

Sherlock did not like regrets. “Why?” he demanded, turning his teeth on Indigo’s earlobe.

Honestly Indigo didn’t even know where he was going with that and was about to just give in when Sherlock’s mobile trilled irritatingly in his pocket. Sherlock growled in frustration, which Indigo swore he felt through their tongues as he spread his legs over Sherlock’s lap, grinding down against him even as he wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Disappointingly Sherlock turned his head away to look at the phone. “Mycroft,” he sneered at the text message. “Wants to know what happened to us.”

“Oh.” For a moment Indigo had actually forgotten where they were and why. He still wasn’t sure he remembered completely, oxygen-deprived as he was.

Sherlock grinned wickedly. “Just getting ready,” he narrated as he typed. Then he frowned and typed something else. “It surely can’t have escaped his notice that one of the guests is your former owner,” he commented to Indigo. His tone said there had better be a good explanation for this.

“Oh. Hmm?” Indigo replied dully. His lips felt swollen, pleasantly so, from the voracious kissing, and he pressed them against Sherlock’s neck.

He felt the rumble of Sherlock’s laugh. “No, we have to go,” he insisted, rubbing Indigo’s sides. “Ghastly cocktail party, then ghastly dinner party—we are, apparently, late or something?—the ghastly after-dinner conversation. Then we can go to bed.”

Indigo liked the sound of that. “Mmm, can we skip straight to the last bit?” he asked.

“No. You’re supposed to be a good influence on me,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Oh, is that how this works?” Indigo replied innocently, but he leaned back a little so he could see Sherlock’s face. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to keep a rather foolish grin off his own, especially when he saw that Sherlock’s lips were also more flushed than usual.

“Yes. Come on, get up.” Reluctantly Indigo stood, then Sherlock. The other man splashed a little water on his face, ran a hand through his hair, and straightened his clothes, and somehow he once again looked elegant and stylish without even really trying. Indigo didn’t even dare look in the mirror himself, knowing he’d be blotchy and askew.

“So, I’m to attend the cocktail party with you,” he checked, tucking his shirt back in.

“Yes.”

Indigo wondered how well _that_ would go over. “And how should I act?”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Like you normally do.”

“We don’t normally go to cocktail parties.”

“We go to crime scenes,” Sherlock equated. “Just act like you do there.”

“Check out the dead body, then stand quietly in the background while you insult people?” Indigo quipped.

“Yes, but with a drink in your hand,” Sherlock deadpanned.

Indigo grinned. “Slaves don’t drink. In public,” he added, seeing Sherlock about to object.

“We’re not in public,” he countered instead. “We’re at my mother’s house.”

“She has very memorable bathrooms.” He finally saw Sherlock’s lips twitch—he’d been watching them closely—and counted that as a win.

“Are you ready?” Sherlock reached for the door.

Indigo stopped him. “What about… Robinsdale?” he forced himself to ask. “Can we just sort of… ignore him?”

“I think we’re both good at ignoring people,” Sherlock assessed. Indigo gave him a look that said this answer was insufficient. “You have my permission to ignore him,” he spelled out. “Just refer him back to me if he doesn’t like it. Now can we—“

Indigo stopped him again, sliding between Sherlock and the door. “What if…” he began slowly, not liking to think about it, “what if he tries to…” People could get rather weird about seeing their former possessions owned by someone else—angry, or consumed with the desire to try them out one last time. Usually his other masters hadn’t had a problem with either one.

It took Sherlock a moment to understand what Indigo was getting at. When he did his eyes darkened and he pressed Indigo even closer against the door, his hand sliding up his shoulder until he could fit two fingers under the black leather collar, caressing the skin beneath. “I expect you to do whatever is necessary,” he intoned slowly, filling Indigo’s senses completely, “to protect my property. Is that understood?” Indigo nodded quickly. Sherlock took his hand away. “Ready?” he asked again, and Indigo got out of his way.

Sherlock opened the door and stepped into the hall, which was still empty. Indigo slipped his hand into Sherlock’s as he followed him out, looking around self-consciously. “You know, I’m not sure what happened to my coat,” he admitted, scanning the tiled floor for it.

“Someone probably picked it up and took it to my room,” Sherlock predicted. “That’s their job. Mycroft!”

The room they’d stepped into was a lovely atrium, with some palm trees and tropical flowers in pots scattered artfully around the space. The first thing Indigo always did was count the collars, and to his relief he saw a number of other slaves who looked like companions, including Anthea at Mycroft’s side. Of course she was wearing a chic little black dress and a collar that looked more like a necklace.

“Sherlock, there you are,” his brother greeted, pasting a false smile on his face. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d gotten lost.”

Sherlock gave him a fake smile in return. “How thoughtful. Where’s Mummy? And why did she invite that person?”

Mycroft’s eyes flickered to Indigo. “He’s her neighbor, he’s renting Brideswell,” he replied matter-of-factly. Then he leaned closer and murmured, “He’s considering a run for MP.” This was accompanied by a significant look.

“Oh, you want me to deduce some dirt about him?” Sherlock hissed back, as Indigo made sure no one was eavesdropping. “Not bloody likely! Do your own scut work.”

“ _Actually_ ,” Mycroft countered smugly, “I was hoping to talk to Indigo about him.”

“Me?” Indigo asked with some alarm, as Mycroft’s gaze turned on him.

“Indigo?” Sherlock said at the same time, with rather more indignation in his tone. “ _That’s_ why you invited me? To get _him_?” Indigo glanced at his master nervously, wondering how this would change his mood.

“Well, we all know how much _you_ hate parties,” Mycroft shrugged, taking the glass of wine Anthea handed him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, seemingly more exasperated than upset thank goodness, and snatched his own glass of wine from a passing waiter. “What’s he going to tell you?” he asked rhetorically of Indigo. “His favorite position? That he likes being spanked?” He made a face as he tried the wine. “This is disgusting,” he added, handing it off to Indigo. Thinking about being interrogated by Mycroft, Indigo impulsively downed the wine in one gulp and set the empty glass aside.

“Mummy!” Sherlock called, dragging Indigo away from his brother. Indigo had to admit he was curious to meet the Holmes brothers’ mother, having heard so little about her and always in hushed tones. And now, lovely, he’d just had a forbidden glass of wine and was thinking about spanking.

Mummy Holmes turned out to be a petite, silver-haired woman in an elegant dress, who gave a real smile as her younger son kissed her cheek. “Sherlock,” she greeted warmly, patting him in an assessing embrace. “I think you’ve put on a bit of weight. That’s good, you need it.”

“Mummy, Mycroft is being such a pill,” he complained immediately. “Do you know what he just said? He—“

Mummy had rolled her eyes at the start of his diatribe. “Now, darling,” she chided lightly. She leaned around him to see Indigo. “Introduce me to your slave, I’ve heard you’re very fond of him.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, which Indigo didn’t have time to enjoy before he was pulled forward in front of Mummy. He felt as if he should bow or something. “Mummy, this is Indigo. Indigo, this is Mummy.”

She had the same piercing gaze as her sons, Indigo realized, once he’d been pinned and felt like his mind was being read. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he replied. Because he sure as h—l wasn’t going to call her _Mummy_.

“What lovely manners you have,” she complimented, speaking directly to him. “Why don’t you go off to the kitchen with the others for supper now? Just follow Anthea.”

“Yes, ma—“

“Oh, Mummy,” Sherlock whined, actually whined, behind him. “Can’t he stay with me at dinner? These things are so dull.”

Mummy had a lot of experience dealing with this. “No, darling,” she said firmly. “Indigo, I’m sure you’ll enjoy your dinner, we have a very fine cook—“

“Steve?” someone shouted heartily, and Indigo went pale, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “Steve, it _is_ you!” said a rotund man, coming up behind him. “What the h—l are you doing here? Oh, pardon my language, ma’am,” he said cutely to Mummy. His hand came down heavily on Indigo’s shoulder as the slave tried to remember how to breathe and focused on his memory of Sherlock kissing him.

“Obviously he’s here as someone else’s slave,” he heard Sherlock say coldly, “so take your hand off him.”

The hand lifted and Indigo was pulled over to Sherlock’s other side, from where he finally dared to take a peek at this former master. Same fake salesman-esque grin as he made an exaggerated apology, same sharp eyes assessing everyone present. Well good luck putting one over on _this_ family, Indigo thought, then turned himself towards Mummy attentively as though they hadn’t been interrupted.

“Mr. Robinsdale, I’m sure you haven’t met my younger son, Sherlock,” Mummy introduced. Handshakes were _not_ exchanged.

“Oh, you’ve got this little devil, huh?” Robinsdale joked, referring to Indigo. It was a little unseemly, skittering just on the edge of acceptable populism; Indigo knew the man was dying with curiosity about him. “You gotta watch out for this one, he’s a sneaky little so-and-so.”

Indigo affected being thoroughly uninterested in whatever he had to say. Sherlock tried to do the same but was socially bound to reply, at least in front of his mother. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, his tone adding that further details were not desired. “Indigo’s perfectly well-behaved.” This was directed at Mummy.

“Indigo, huh? Fancier name than I came up, huh?” the man went on lightly. “Where’d you—“

“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Robinsdale,” Mummy interrupted with exquisite politeness. “There’s Anthea, dear, why don’t you join her?” she suggested to Indigo.

“Yes, thank you,” Indigo replied quickly. He started to pull away but Sherlock stopped him, and for an instant Indigo was afraid he was going to contradict his mother’s orders. Instead Sherlock leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

“Find me after supper,” he ordered and finally let him go, as casually as if they always parted that way. Indigo tried not to look too idiotic as he stumbled away to join Anthea and the other slaves on their march to the kitchen.

**

Once in the kitchen for supper, where it was all slaves and they had nothing to do but wait for their masters to finish eating, things were often more relaxed, even jolly. Slaves didn’t get to meet new slaves very often, and many took advantage of the opportunity to trade funny stories about their masters or advice on dealing with them, or to just generally have it acknowledged that there might be something else to their lives than their masters’ whims. Indigo enjoyed the good feelings around him, but he was keenly aware that many of the slaves belonged to the Holmes household and of course Anthea was also there—Indigo didn’t think he was being spied on exactly, but he had no doubt that if he said something less than respectful it would be reported back to someone immediately. So he mentioned novels he’s read and the latest construction in London, and kept his mouth shut about Sherlock.

Robinsdale had brought a slave to the house as well—young lad named Billy. Indigo had worried for a moment this meant Robinsdale was staying for the whole weekend, but no, apparently he’d just come along to look after his master’s things, get the car ready, and so forth. Indigo thought this must be a new fashion, or perhaps he’d just never been trusted with that duty himself—what with being ‘sneaky’ and all. Sherlock would no doubt demand to know what Robinsdale had meant by his comments and Indigo was already trying to figure out how best to phrase his answers. He supposed, from a certain perspective, he _could_ be considered a bit devilish, a bit sneaky… when provoked.

“Indigo, isn’t it?” a voice asked, and Indigo looked up to see Billy addressing him from down the table.

“Yes, that’s me,” he agreed lightly.

“You used to be owned by my master, I think,” Billy went on. “Chet Robinsdale?”

“Yes, he called me Steve,” Indigo replied, as if this was all Billy had inquired about. “Not very imaginative with names.” This was a common complaint about masters, which fell at the very mild end of the range—a safe remark, in other words.

“What do you think of him, Billy?” asked a woman from another household, who was a bit bold.

“Well, he’s kind of… he’s kind of a b-----d,” Billy blurted, then grinned with relief at having said this out loud, while everyone else tittered nervously. That was the sort of thing slaves talked about, of course, but older, more experienced slaves like Indigo knew how to be more discreet about it. “Is that what you thought, Indigo?” Billy pressed. “I mean, everything has to be done just perfectly or I’m doing it ten times over, and if he’s mad about something nothing is ever right, and he and the head man are quick with the belt—“

Indigo remembered the belt well. “I would not disagree,” he replied carefully, concentrating on his meatloaf.

“Well, do you have any advice?” Billy was forced to ask, clearly thinking what he wanted ought to be obvious.

“Hmm, advice about Chet Robinsdale,” Indigo repeated thoughtfully. Sadly there were no magic words that would make an abusive sociopath suddenly respect you as a human being. Indigo was sure of this, he’d tried nearly every word in the English language and a few in other languages besides. “I would say,” he began slowly, and Billy leaned forward to hear him over the other conversations. “Cut his throat in the night and run away to America,” Indigo finished calmly, meeting Billy’s eye. And that was not very discreet at all.

Conversation at the table died suddenly as the other slaves processed what Indigo had said. They could say a lot of things here that their masters would not necessarily like—but there was a line, because retaliation could be punished very severely, and Indigo’s comment couldn’t even _see_ that line in its rear view mirror.

He just didn’t really care, though. It was something to do with Sherlock kissing him and knowing Sherlock would find the comment funny, but he wasn’t feeling cocky or invincible. If anything, he felt sad, thinking of Billy in Chet Robinsdale’s bed, or under his belt, when he was so young and could probably be a musician or engineer or something if he just had the chance.

“Pass the mashed potatoes, please,” Indigo added into the silence. Someone handed him the bowl and conversation slowly began to resume. Indigo noticed no one spoke directly to him after that, though, and Anthea busily texted on her phone while shooting him an inscrutable look.

**

_Come to drawing room_ , Sherlock had texted him. Dinner for rich free people went on much longer than dinner for slaves, it turned out, so afterward Indigo had found the room they were staying in, resisted the urge to dig through Sherlock’s preserved childhood belongings, and sat down to read his novel. Many of the slaves had gathered in a back room for a rare chance to watch a little telly, but Indigo found he wasn’t much interested in that. Plus his intemperate comment had made the others a bit wary of him—maybe he _was_ sneaky and devilish after all. Anthea had gone up to Mycroft’s room alone too, though, so maybe it was proper Holmes behavior.

She also emerged when Indigo did. “Drawing room?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she replied, and said nothing else. Indigo had learned she just preferred to keep herself to herself; he could respect that.

“I’m going to run to the kitchen,” he told her as they neared the ground floor. “Where’s the drawing room?”

“It’s…” She thought about describing the location to him, then decided against it—whether due to her prowess or his, he wasn’t sure. “They’ll tell you,” she finally said.

“Okay.” And indeed they did. Three insistent text messages from Sherlock later, Indigo walked into the drawing room to find the Holmes family gathered around a cozy fire, recuperating from entertaining guests. Anthea sat on the sofa next to Mycroft, carefully not touching him.

“Where’ve you _been_?” Sherlock demanded when Indigo came around to sit on the couch beside him. He tried to mimic Anthea’s distance from her master, but Sherlock just scooted close to _him_ , and put his arm up on the back of the couch behind Indigo’s shoulders as well. Which Indigo couldn’t say he wasn’t flattered by.

“I stopped in the kitchen for a snack,” Indigo revealed, pulling the dishcloth off the plate of apple, cheese, and crackers he’d brought in.

Sherlock scoffed as Indigo began to slice the apple and cheese. “See, I _told_ you he eats a lot, Mummy,” Sherlock insisted. “Don’t you like lobster? I’ve never seen you eat it before.”

Indigo was confused for a moment. “Oh, we had meatloaf,” he clarified. “Which was very good.” Slaves weren’t going to be served _lobster_. “Did you have lobster? Was it good?”

“A passable specimen,” Sherlock replied. Somehow Indigo didn’t think he was talking about the flavor. “A bit mushy inside, you couldn’t see the whole digestive system clearly. And Lady Sylvia was _not_ very interested in it,” he added in complaint. “Even when I found a _really_ good example of the stomatogastric ganglion.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Indigo sympathized. He layered an apple slice, a piece of cheese, and a cracker, then took a bite and offered the rest to Sherlock.

“I mean, the woman is singularly uninformed about the nervous system,” he went on, taking the food and making short work of it. Indigo was already preparing another one, trying to take the smallest acceptable bite as he _was_ rather full from dinner. “Why do you put me next to idiots, Mummy?”

Mummy had done a double take when Sherlock actually ate something without protest, and now she was watching them closely. “Lady _Susan_ Whitscomb is one of the foremost astronomers in England,” she corrected her son.

“Pointless profession,” Sherlock judged, eating another stack handed to him by Indigo. There was an art to it, really, the timing, the composition—conversation would hopefully provide the necessary component of distraction.

“Who was on your other side?” Indigo probed.

“Some dull actor nattering about politics,” Sherlock dismissed. “ _Actors_ , Mummy? Really?”

“It was Sir George Vance,” Mummy informed him coolly.

“S—t, George Vance was here?!” Indigo blurted, then clapped his hand over his mouth in horror. “I am so sorry,” he apologized to Mummy, as Mycroft laughed in the background. “I’m very sorry. George Vance, really? You know him?” he asked, trying desperately to deflect the conversation away from his gaffe.

Mummy sighed and smiled, as though glad _someone_ at least appreciated her guests. “Well, friend of a friend,” she clarified. “I understand he’s retired to this county recently, so I hope to invite him here again soon—if you didn’t ruin it for me,” she added to Sherlock.

“Who _is_ this person?” Sherlock demanded, allowing Indigo to actually _feed_ him this time. “Why are you all so enamored of him? Former alcoholic with estranged exes and a large dog—“

“He’s Dr. Who!” Indigo insisted gleefully. Well, he’d been in the same house with George Vance, even if he hadn’t actually seen him. That was amazing. “One of them, anyway.”

“I thought he was an actor,” Sherlock said in confusion.

Indigo rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder briefly and fed him another piece of cheese. “You know how we’ve talked about your complete lack of popular culture knowledge?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this is more of that,” Indigo tried to explain, which made Sherlock roll his eyes. “No, seriously, you haven’t heard of Dr. Who? It’s a telly program, the old version was on all through the ‘60s and ‘70s. George Vance was the… Fourth Doctor?” He glanced around for confirmation.

“Third,” Mycroft corrected.

“Third. Time-travel, aliens, monsters,” Indigo described as Sherlock continued to look at him blankly.

“Your childhood was spent watching this?” Sherlock surmised, sounding like ‘spent’ was a last-minute replacement for ‘wasted.’

“Yes. I suppose _your_ childhood was spent actually attempting to _build_ a TARDIS,” Indigo suggested. “The time-and-space-traveling machine?”

“What would be the point of _that_?” Sherlock wanted to know. “Well, I _did_ once attempt to genetically engineer frogs with opposable thumbs, but that was more proof of concept than anything.”

“What?” Indigo laughed. “That’s fantastic, that’s like a monster Dr. Who would defeat.”

“They really didn’t get beyond a few cells, hardly terrifying,” Sherlock claimed. “Well, except to the maid, who practically had a nervous breakdown when she found them…” Mummy sighed and tsked a little, while Mycroft snickered.

“Well, there’s a new version of Dr. Who now, we can watch it sometime,” Indigo told Sherlock. “You never know, maybe you’ll like it.”

Sherlock felt he knew very well. “Is that the nonsensical show you watch with the pseudo-military uniforms and the funny foreheads?” he asked.

“No, that’s _Star Trek_.” Indigo _really_ didn’t watch that much telly, he thought, usually just late at night when Sherlock was out and he couldn’t sleep.

“Honestly, Indigo, why do you watch so much drivel?” Sherlock scoffed.

Indigo grinned. “Only to balance your extreme rationality,” he shot back, and Sherlock actually recognized the joke and smirked a bit at him, turning towards him more and making eye contact, his fingers brushing Indigo’s shoulder from the back of the couch. After a moment Indigo remembered they weren’t alone and the tips of his ears turned pink as he moved to set the plate aside. Sherlock had eaten almost the whole apple and all the cheese; the remaining crackers didn’t seem worth tempting him with.

A look pinged between Mummy and Mycroft. “Well, I think it all came off rather well,” Mummy announced, of the dinner party as a whole. “I’m so glad you were both able to take time out of your busy schedules to spend the weekend here,” she added to her sons, somehow both affectionate and pointed at the same time. So _that’s_ where Sherlock got it from.

“Oh, always a pleasure, Mummy,” Mycroft claimed.

“Mmmmmmmm,” Sherlock replied when it was his turn.

Mummy rolled her eyes. “Points for honesty, I suppose,” she judged.

“I was honest,” Mycroft insisted.

If there was going to be a family row, Indigo would like nothing better than to zone out right now. Instead he curled up against Sherlock more and closed his eyes—which did nothing for his own relaxation but distracted Sherlock from spitting out a caustic remark at his brother. “Are you tired?” he asked Indigo with disbelief.

Indigo nodded against his shoulder. “Knackered.” Sherlock snorted. “Big day,” Indigo went on. “First overnight trip.”

“Big thing for you, is it?”

“Yeah, I’ll have to make a notch on my collar.”

There was a pause, and Indigo tried hard to keep a straight face. “Are you joking?” Sherlock finally checked and Indigo grinned.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock pretended to be unamused. “Fine, we’ll go to bed,” he allowed. “Wake up, come on.”

Indigo straightened himself out and waited while Sherlock kissed his mother on the cheek. “Goodnight, Mummy.”

“Goodnight, darling.”

“Um, goodnight,” Indigo told her politely. “Nice to have met you.”

“Yes, Indigo,” Mummy agreed, a bit speculatively. “Have a good night, dear.”

“Goodnight, Anthea,” Indigo added as Sherlock pulled him from the room, having given his brother only eye contact and a scoff.

“Night,” she replied, with a bit of surprise.

“Interesting fellow, this Indigo,” Mummy commented once they’d left. She gave Mycroft a significant look.

“Oh really, Mummy, I don’t know much about him,” Mycroft claimed. His mother was too sharp to believe _that_ , though, and Mycroft had the feeling he was about to be interrogated.

Meanwhile, in the hall—“You’re not _really_ that tired, are you?” Sherlock asked.

“I could probably stay up a bit later,” Indigo decided innocently.

“Well, hurry up then,” Sherlock ordered, tugging them up the stairs. Indigo hoped there would be considerably more snogging in his immediate future.

**

They were curled up in bed, neither of them tired, still kissing like it would soon go extinct. Indigo remembered how he’d felt when Sherlock had cured his leg, that mix of wonder and gratitude and recklessness, like anything was suddenly possible—well, not _anything_ , obviously, but Indigo refused to let his spirit be pulled down.

“Mmm, we could have been doing this the _whole time_ —“ Sherlock noted, skimming Indigo’s lips with his own.

“I would’ve stopped you,” Indigo predicted with a smirk. “Too unconventional for my tastes.”

“Ridiculous notion,” Sherlock judged, “not kissing slaves. One does everything _else_ with them—“

He stopped, and Indigo realized he was worried he’d said something upsetting. That in itself was so thoughtful—both for Sherlock, and masters in general—that Indigo leaned in and kissed him again. Sherlock seemed to take this as a sign that Indigo was open to discussing the topic further.

“Robinsdale made several further unpleasant comments about you,” Sherlock began, and Indigo curled up against him, feeling safe with his long arms wrapped around him. “In front of Mummy and Mycroft! That’s terribly rude. Well, Mycroft said it was rude,” Sherlock admitted. He was no authority on those things. “I just thought he was an a-s.”

“Yes,” Indigo agreed mildly. He hoped Sherlock didn’t feel the need to convey the man’s exact words to him. “I’m sorry your mother had to hear it.”

“I assured her they weren’t true at all!” Sherlock huffed indignantly.

“You’re sure about that?” Indigo asked dryly. He knew Sherlock had been frustrated with him at times.

He felt the other man’s arms tighten around him. “Absolutely,” Sherlock avowed. “What does that even mean, to have a ‘bad attitude’?” he scoffed. “I’ve been told that many times. Usually all it meant was that someone _else_ was being an idiot.”

Indigo couldn’t help chuckling against him. “Exactly,” he confirmed. “A slave who does what he’s told, but manages to convey he thinks you’re an idiot. People don’t like that.”

“No, I’ve noticed that,” Sherlock agreed. Though he didn’t seem to really understand _why_.

“People don’t generally want slaves who _think_ at all,” Indigo risked continuing. He didn’t want Sherlock to feel like he was being criticized for his tolerance and unusual attitude, which was obviously a benefit to Indigo. “Even if they agree with you. They’re just supposed to obey.”

Sherlock dismissed this notion. “Who has time to micromanage someone to that extent?” he complained. “Might as well program a robot to do things. Er, that’s what robots are for, isn’t it?”

Indigo smiled against his shoulder. “Yes.”

“Because in those silly programs you watch the robots are always taking over.”

“Bad robots,” Indigo assured him with amusement. “Good robots just do what they’re told.” He’d never quite made that connection before—suddenly a lot of the silly programs, particularly those with sympathetic rebelling robots, seemed very subversive.

“Well, anyway, I _insist_ you think,” Sherlock went on, his fingers stroking the back of Indigo’s neck idly. “I’m not going to do the thinking _for_ you, particularly for mundane things. Don’t try to squeak out of it.”

Indigo attempted to remain as serious as Sherlock apparently was. “No, of course not,” he replied. He honestly couldn’t tell sometimes if Sherlock was joking—instinct said not, but perhaps he merely had the direst sense of humor in the world.

Okay, unlikely.

“He said you were unmanageable,” Sherlock continued after a long moment, speaking of Robinsdale again. He sounded mystified, and perhaps slightly hurt, by this assessment. “To Mummy! I said I managed you perfectly well. And then Mycroft—I just _know_ he was going to say something, but then the dinner bell—“

Indigo pulled back with a grimace—he knew talking about his brother always got Sherlock worked up, but he hadn’t considered—“Did he tell Mummy about the thing with Anthea? When I thought she was—“ He and Anthea got on well now, he felt, and had put that initial awkwardness behind them.

This was not very important to Sherlock. “You were protecting me,” he waved off. “Are you going somewhere?”

Indigo wasn’t, so he pressed back against Sherlock, his eyes drifting shut as the other man played with his hair. He felt guilty about something, though, like he wasn’t being honest with him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced that with a master before. “People don’t like it when I zone out,” he said, probably rather suddenly from Sherlock’s viewpoint.

“People are bothered by foolish things,” Sherlock responded, straight-faced, and Indigo smiled.

“ _You_ didn’t like it,” he reminded him.

“Well, it was irritating if we were in the middle of a conversation,” Sherlock conceded, “but you don’t do that anymore.”

“No,” Indigo agreed. He liked conversations with his master and wanted to be there for them. Okay, sometimes Sherlock got a bit repetitive or esoteric, and Indigo didn’t pay _complete_ attention, but he wasn’t zoned out. “But in the past—“ He didn’t like to think about it, had been actively trying to _avoid_ thinking about it all evening. “People hated it,” he said vaguely, hoping Sherlock would get the message.

Remarkably, he seemed to. “It was their own fault, because they were doing something bad to you,” he said, and his voice was softer, making it less of an indignant proclamation. Perhaps he had actually thought about this before. “You’re not a bad person, Indigo.”

Indigo froze at those words, forgetting to breathe for a moment. He’d said _person_ , not _slave_ , and anyway how could someone with such poor people skills as Sherlock know what Indigo spent far too much time wondering about? Of course, there were bad masters, bad officers, bad teachers, bad parents—it didn’t take much insight to realize they were being unfair and cruel for their own reasons. But at the same time there was always that voice in the back of his mind, especially as he was passed from one bad situation to another, that said, _maybe this is all you deserve_.

“Indigo?” Sherlock prompted, when the slave just lay there silently.

“Yes. Here,” he answered awkwardly, pressing his head against Sherlock’s chest. His heart thumped evenly under Indigo’s ear, unperturbed by the sudden changes in mood that seemed to afflict the other man tonight.

He felt Sherlock adjust his hold on him, brushing the top of his head with his lips. “Did I say something that upset you?” he asked curiously.

“No, you said everything right,” Indigo assured him. “Only could we not talk about the past anymore?”

“I suppose it _is_ rather tedious,” Sherlock allowed, which wasn’t quite the word Indigo would have chosen. But then Sherlock leaned down and started to kiss him again, and Indigo decided to focus entirely on the present.


	2. Chapter 2

Indigo was caught between two Holmes brothers, and that was never a good place to be. Mycroft sat across the desk from him, fingers steepled, staring at him as if he could X-ray his heart with a look. Sherlock was off to the side, technically out of Indigo’s view but he could be clearly heard, scoffing, sighing, squirming. Indigo was well-attuned to his master and his tension made the slave uneasy. Yet at the same time he had a ridiculously powerful desire to prove himself to Mycroft—that he was as intelligent and useful as Mycroft thought him capable of being.

It was all getting rather absurd.

“Will you just ask him something, Mycroft?” Sherlock finally snapped. “ _I’m_ going to zone out.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows flared briefly, as if Sherlock was not even worth a real eye-roll. “Chet Robinsdale,” he finally pronounced. “Your master for about ten months in—“

“He knows his own history,” Sherlock interrupted sharply. Indigo wasn’t sure if he was being protective or if he was just bored.

“He’s considering a run for MP,” Mycroft went on, ignoring his brother. One could not tell which way he was leaning from his tone. “What can you tell me that might be of interest in this regard?”

Indigo said the first thing that came to mind. “I wouldn’t vote for him.”

Of course slaves couldn’t vote anyway. Mycroft was unimpressed. “Is there some reason he shouldn’t be an MP?” he questioned.

“Does being a sadistic b-----d count?” Indigo inquired, keeping his tone polite.

“No,” Mycroft replied, perfectly serious.

Indigo sighed and tried to think, hitting only the surface-level memories. “He drinks too much, he beats his slaves, he gambles—“

“What incredibly dull vices,” Sherlock judged.

“Tell me more about the gambling,” Mycroft probed evenly.

“He won me in a game of blackjack,” Indigo offered.

“Yes, he mentioned that,” Mycroft agreed. He did seem to find the memory of talking to the man distasteful. “Right after he called you poorly behaved, stubborn, passive-aggressive, and unmanageable,” he added challengingly.

“In front of Mummy!” Sherlock interjected indignantly.

“Very déclassé,” Mycroft nodded, his laser beam gaze resting on Indigo.

“Sherlock’s called me passive-aggressive,” Indigo threw out. “Also stubborn.”

“I never,” Sherlock claimed, affronted. Indigo leaned around to look at his self-righteous expression, then sat back shaking his head.

“Garden-variety insecure bully,” Indigo concluded dismissively.

“That’s your professional assessment, is it?”

Indigo shrugged. He’d been tested by more creative characters. “Dilettante. Chip on his shoulder about not being old money.” He dared to dig a bit deeper. “There was something with the Earl of Dorset—“ Mycroft looked mildly interested. “He won half the Earl’s mansion in a card game and tried to squeeze him for the rest, but he was bought off.” He rubbed his forehead, feeling very tired all of a sudden.

He could tell he was falling short of Mycroft’s expectations. “Ten months you were in intimate contact with him, Indigo,” he reminded him coolly. “Have you nothing else to show for it?”

“Stop, you’re upsetting him,” Sherlock ordered, and he really did sound concerned, which worried Indigo more than anything.

“I could show you the scar from where he hit me with a lamp,” Indigo offered idly. Maybe Sherlock had a point, he was feeling oddly disoriented now, not as alert as he should be. Could he be coming down with a cold, perhaps? Inspiration struck. “Maybe you would like some numbers, from inside the safe.”

Suddenly Sherlock was kneeling in front of him, staring deeply into his eyes and stroking his hand. “Indigo, it’s alright,” he soothed. “You don’t have to think about it anymore.”

“Tell me about the numbers,” Mycroft persisted in the background, and Sherlock turned to snap at him.

Indigo took Sherlock’s phone from his pocket and busied himself typing numbers into it. “There was a walk-in safe,” he commented, interrupting both Holmes brothers. “He locked me in it once. That was novel. He had some papers in there, from various banks around the world. With account numbers.” He handed the phone to Sherlock, who passed it on to Mycroft.

“You memorized them?”

“I shredded them,” Indigo replied instead, with some relish. “Every single one. Very small pieces.” Pause. “He was not happy about that.” If he was going to be poorly behaved and unmanageable, he was going to do it in a big way. The contents of that safe had been absolutely _destroyed_.

He didn’t realize he was smirking slightly until he saw Sherlock’s alarmed expression. Then he tried to drag himself back to the present. “Can we go outside?” he asked his master. “It’s hard to breathe in here.” As it might be inside a locked safe.

Sherlock sprang to his feet instantly. “Yes, of course,” he allowed, holding out his hand for Indigo’s. “I trust you’re done bringing up unpleasant memories for him?” he added caustically to his brother.

Mycroft was perusing the numbers thoughtfully, having transferred them to his own phone. “Perhaps,” he demurred. “I’ll let you know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then realized Indigo hadn’t taken his hand yet and looked back at him. “Indigo?” The slave was staring at Sherlock’s outstretched hand, thinking dispassionately about how large it was and how much damage it could do with one blow, though you certainly shouldn’t dismiss small hands, especially if they had significant fingernails—“Indigo?”

“Did he zone out?” Mycroft asked curiously.

“I don’t think so.” Slowly Sherlock moved his hand a little closer and Indigo flinched. “You’ve really distressed him this time, Mycroft,” Sherlock judged, keeping his voice even and his eyes on Indigo as he continued to reach out until he was cupping his cheek gently. “I only helped you because Mummy said to, and because I don’t like _that person_ and I assume you’re going to do him a bad turn.” He risked taking his gaze from Indigo to look at Mycroft for confirmation. Naturally his brother was keenly interested in his interaction with the slave.

“Hmm? Oh, it depends on what these numbers lead to,” Mycroft claimed. “You do seem to have a way with him,” he added, in a rare compliment.

Sherlock was not in the mood to appreciate it and concentrated on softly stroking Indigo’s cheek. “Did you see him flinch? He never flinches when I reach for him. He knows I won’t hurt him. You’ve just disturbed him.”

“Sorry,” Mycroft offered, but not very sincerely. A little disturbance was the cost of doing business. And a valuable opportunity to see what happened when someone was no longer comfortable.

“We’re going outside,” Sherlock declared, dropping his hand for Indigo to take again. This time the slave didn’t hesitate.

“Right, sorry,” Indigo replied hastily, standing. He didn’t think he’d zoned out but it certainly felt like he hadn’t been entirely there the whole time; he wasn’t sure how that would go over with Mycroft. “Um, hope I was helpful—“

Sherlock didn’t care if he was helpful to someone else, especially his brother. “Come on,” he interrupted, tugging Indigo towards the French doors that led to the garden. “You need some fresh air.” Indigo supposed he really must, if Sherlock was suggesting it.

They strolled down a path in the sunshine, lined with roses and lilies, fat bees hovering from one flower to another, and Indigo inhaled deeply, trying to ignore the suspicious looks Sherlock was giving all of the invading nature. The country was a nice change sometimes, he liked the quiet of it—though generally he preferred the energy of London. He let the past fade away, until all he had was the present moment—another trick he’d learned over the years. By necessity even the past with Sherlock faded from the front of his mind; but he kept with him the feelings he had for him, the warm glow suffusing him as they held hands.

There was something he wanted to say about that. “You have very nice hands,” Indigo offered, looking down at Sherlock’s fingers.

“You know I wouldn’t hurt you, don’t you, Indigo?” Sherlock responded, his tone slightly anxious.

Indigo smiled at him. “Of course.” It felt good to have confidence on that point. But Sherlock anxious was _not_ good, and might require a _little_ examination of the recent past to alleviate. What did one say? Sorry? That almost never worked with Sherlock—he didn’t care about apologies, only explanations. “Thinking about the past with a bad master upset me a little, because I usually keep those memories locked away,” he told Sherlock forthrightly. “But I feel much better now, and if it helps your brother reduce the man’s influence it was worth it, in my opinion.”

Sherlock accepted this without argument. “It was somewhat alarming, as you didn’t seem completely coherent at some points,” he noted seriously, but Indigo’s statement seemed to calm him. “I suppose I oughtn’t to ask you any questions,” he went on leadingly, “like about how you memorized those numbers, or what else you destroyed in the safe, or what he did to you after.” Somehow he managed to ask questions anyway. That was Sherlock.

“You have a mind palace,” Indigo noted.

“Yes.”

“So do I. And it has a lot of doors which are now locked.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, comprehending this metaphor. “Yours is probably more of a cottage, though,” he couldn’t resist correcting.

Indigo smiled. “Alright. A mind cottage.”

“I’m sure it’s a nice cottage, though,” Sherlock added quickly, suddenly realizing he might have given offense. Better late than never. “Very… cozy. Aren’t cottages supposed to be cozy?” Clearly he did not see the point of cozy.

Indigo felt slightly bold with relief that his ordeal was over, though the details of said ordeal were quickly being packed away in a back closet, and he stopped Sherlock under a vine-covered archway. “Yes, cozy,” he agreed, sliding his hands to Sherlock’s hips. “Cozy like your bed is cozy.” He leaned up to nuzzle Sherlock’s neck, feeling his pulse quicken in his throat. “Maybe we could return there soon?” He was being a bit shameless, really, which was unlike him, but on the rare occasions he was in that mood he could tell Sherlock quite appreciated it. Indigo, in turn, appreciated the freedom to _have_ moods, and express them without fear of reprisal. Funny what turned you on after a while.

He assumed Sherlock agreed with his suggestion, though for the moment neither made any move to leave the archway, and as they escalated Indigo was forced to think about the structural integrity of this particular piece of garden furniture. Sadly he guessed it would not be sufficient for what Sherlock apparently had in mind, plus the plants were poking at him. Maybe in a moment he would suggest relocating.

“Sherlock!” called a voice, thankfully from a distance. Still, it was a splash of cold water on them both.

Sherlock wrenched his lips from Indigo’s. “D—n!” he hissed.

Cheekily Indigo grinned. “Probably the only time you aren’t glad to see your mother?” he suggested.

“Somewhat inconvenient,” was all Sherlock would allow, running a hand through his hair and straightening his clothes. These actions made him look perfectly respectable again, while Indigo felt unable to escape looking like he’d been thoroughly snogged under a garden arch.

“Sherlock!” his mother called again, closer, and Sherlock finally ducked out to wave at her.

“Here, Mummy!”

“How do I look?” Indigo asked him urgently, and was not heartened by Sherlock’s uncomprehending stare.

“How are you _meant_ to look?”

“Decent,” Indigo hissed. “Meet-your-mother-worthy.” He knocked a dead leaf from his hair.

“You’ve met her already,” Sherlock pointed out, utterly missing his concern.

Indigo sighed. Mummy was getting closer, picking her way down the garden path towards them, though apparently in no hurry as she stopped to smell one blossom, then viciously dead-headed the stem next to it. “Well, what should I _call_ your mother?” Indigo persisted, since they were vaguely on the subject. He might have been speaking Martian for all Sherlock was understanding him, though. “How should I address her? Mrs. Holmes, perhaps?” He didn’t want to make assumptions.

“Just call her Mummy,” Sherlock replied, and Indigo feared he was serious.

“I can’t call her that.”

“Why not? _I_ do.” Against that kind of impenetrable logic Indigo had no argument.

Besides, the woman in question had finally reached them. “There you are, Sherlock,” she remarked. Deftly she took his arm and continued walking where she wanted to go. Indigo trailed along behind, clinging to Sherlock’s hand, though she _had_ given him an acknowledging smile and nod.

“Mummy, Mycroft was being beastly to Indigo,” Sherlock complained petulantly. “ _I_ did what you said and helped him, and Indigo got so upset!”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” His mother actually did sound sincere. “Did Mycroft apologize?”

“No, I’m sure he didn’t,” Sherlock insisted, and his manner became positively smug when Mummy tsked.

“Are you feeling better now, Indigo?” she checked, glancing back at him.

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” he answered quickly, which was the only acceptable answer. “All fine now.”

“Well, I don’t like seeing him get upset,” Sherlock went on anyway. “You know, he’s so calm most of the time, Mummy, even _cheerful_. Especially in the morning.” This was not necessarily a compliment, coming from Sherlock. “And Mycroft got him so distraught he could hardly speak.” Indigo really didn’t want to rehash it but couldn’t think of a way to say that with Mummy present, so he just squeezed Sherlock’s hand. Remarkably, this seemed to do the trick. “But I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Sherlock continued in a martyrish tone, “because it might upset him more.”

“Very sensible, dear,” Mummy assured him, snapping off a wilting bloom as they passed it. “Indigo, were you able to tell Mycroft something helpful?”

Indigo did not want to think back enough to assess. “I hope so, ma’am,” he responded instead. It was slightly odd being spoken to directly by someone of her station, though not unpleasant.

“Mummy, Indigo can call you ‘Mummy,’ can’t he?” Sherlock asked, horrifying Indigo slightly. No amount of hand-squeezing could fix _that_ , he feared, though Sherlock frowned at him for it.

“Of course, dear,” Mummy replied easily, much to Indigo’s surprise. “Anthea does. And I know how special he is to you.”

“Yes, he _is_ very special,” Sherlock agreed readily. Indigo’s nose started to burn suddenly as unexpected emotion shot through him, and he blinked rapidly as he willed himself not to tear up. He could do that later, when he was alone—Sherlock was already concerned enough about his mental state on this trip.

“He’s just very funny, though,” Sherlock went on, oblivious. “Sometimes he seems perfectly simple, a _child_ could see what he was up to, a _slow_ child—“ This was remarkably good for drying up the tears that had formed in Indigo’s eyes. “And other times he’s completely confounding and illogical.”

Mummy pulled a wicked-looking pair of scissors from her pocket and slashed into a pot of flowers as they passed, beheading the drabbest blossoms. “Well, I’m sure that’s what keeps you from getting bored with him, dear,” she observed. “How do you find Sherlock, Indigo?”

It was the last question Indigo expected to be asked and Sherlock had to shake him a bit to prompt his answer. “He’s the best master I’ve ever had, ma’am,” Indigo blurted sincerely. “Er, Mummy.”

“That’s not really saying much, he had awful masters before,” Sherlock admitted carelessly. “Mycroft says he had a _reputation_. But I got him on sale. Why were you on sale?” This had apparently never occurred to Sherlock before.

Indigo had to think about it himself, another place he really didn’t want to go. Fortunately Sherlock kept firm hold of his hand, and Mummy’s piercing gaze was trained on her geraniums, not him. “Oh, my previous master thought I’d set fire to the house,” he remembered.

He may have said this a bit too cavalierly, as Mummy turned around and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t, of course,” Indigo promised them. “I wouldn’t. I mean, there were children inside.”

Gratifyingly this convinced Sherlock immediately. “He likes children, too,” he told Mummy. Clearly this fell into the ‘confounding and illogical’ category.

“But why did he _think_ you’d done it?” Mummy wanted to know, fixing Indigo with a hard stare.

“I said I had,” Indigo admitted. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. A good way to get sold. Mummy,” he added belatedly, thinking of it like ‘ma’am.’

Sherlock frowned at him. “Good way to get beaten,” he noted.

“That, too.”

“Anyway, ridiculous plan, you might have been bought by someone worse,” Sherlock continued.

“I felt the odds were against that,” Indigo replied flatly.

Sherlock contemplated that for a moment. “He’s very tired, Mummy,” he breezed on. “I was just going to take him in for a nap.” He said this so innocently, but color flooded Indigo’s face as he recalled what they’d been doing before Mummy arrived.

“Yes, that sounds like a good idea, dear,” Mummy agreed. Whatever she was thinking, she wasn’t going to share it with either of them. “We’ll see you at tea, I hope, if you sleep through lunch.” Indigo got the feeling Mummy saw straight through this euphemism.

Sherlock checked the time on his phone. “Yes, we probably will,” he agreed blithely. “Come on, Indigo.”

“Nice to see you again, Mummy,” Indigo said over his shoulder. It seemed disrespectful to just leave.

“You, too, dear,” she called after him, with far more thought than Indigo was comfortable with. Trapped in a house with three mind-readers, and Indigo didn’t even want to examine his memories himself, let alone have someone _else_ do it.

Maybe he could keep Sherlock occupied until dinner, at least.


End file.
